


Second Chances

by winterfool



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, I have accidentally fallen deep into this ship, and obviously had write these poor messed up kids bonding over their traumas, because reasons, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-06 01:55:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8730118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterfool/pseuds/winterfool
Summary: Cassandra is curious about the young man her brother wants to train a rifle corps for Whitestone.
a.k.a. two messed up kids find comfort in each other
(spoilers up to episode 70)





	

Kynan still isn’t sure he deserves a second chance. Not after the things he’s done, the mistakes he’s made. But he’s been given one anyway, so he’s determined to work hard in the hope that one day he’ll be able look at himself and think – yes, it was worth giving him that chance. 

Right now it seems rather like a fool’s hope, but it keeps him going.

He sits in the armoury, gently cleaning the rifles after today’s practice. Truthfully he doesn’t really need to; one of the first lessons he gave the men and women he’s training (it’s a strange thought, that he’s training anyone in anything, when he feels so utterly clueless about everything) was how to clean and maintain the guns, so the powder and residue doesn’t clog the mechanism. But he feels the weight of the responsibility given to him with this position, and he would rather be overcautious than risk anything going wrong.

The slow, methodical task could almost bring a sense of, if not peace exactly, quiet and calm – if it weren’t for the way his skin crawls when he touches the weapons. It’s a kind of deep seated revulsion that has nothing to do with the rifles themselves and everything to do with the memories that stir inexorably when he looks at them, as unstoppable a reaction as shivering when the cold morning air first hits him.

The feel of the cool metal beneath his fingertips takes him straight back to an island of glass, to the sun glinting off the barrel of the gun as Ripley raises it, to the echoing, hollow cracks as it fires again and again, to the sight of a body falling prone on the ground and the sound of screams that Kynan feels reverberate through his bones and the feeling of despair, of wrongness, thick and heavy to point of being almost tangible in the air.

Guilt and shame, Kynan is finding, don’t fade the way hurt and anger begin to do with time, but strike fresh each time like finely honed blades.

He worries about what they’re cutting away.

All this goes through his mind every time he uses one of the rifles. So he hates them. But he agreed to train a rifle corps while Vox Machina are gone, and he intends to keep that promise. He knows what he owes Vax’ildan, who kept trying to save him when he didn’t deserve it, he knows what he owes Percival, whose blood was at least partially on his hands, and he knows that these guns will help Whitestone’s defences, and Kynan refuses to let any of them down. So he will train the corps and he will sit and clean the guns afterwards, no matter how he feels.

All the rifles bar one are put away on a rack Percival designed for them, and Kynan has just picked that last one up and set it across his lap to begin cleaning it when he realises he’s not alone in the room any more.

The door doesn’t make any sound opening, nor do the person’s footsteps on the floor, but he can feel their eyes on his back and when he pauses he hears the soft, gentle sound of their breathing.

He turns to see who it is, and his eyes meet a gaze that is a light, steely blue, the same colour as the winter sky outside, but isn’t cold. It isn’t warm, either, but measured, thoughtful, containing experience and sadness in its depths that initially contrasts with the young face the eyes are set in.

Cassandra de Rolo. Lady of Whitestone. Percival’s sister.

Kynan swallows.

The first time he saw her was in the half-finished temple of Seranrae, when she burst in just after the ritual to resurrect her brother had, miraculously, succeeded. Even in the midst of shock, misery and a crushing combination of guilt and relief as he was, Kynan saw the anxiety and terror in her face that she let out in a ragged breath when she saw Percival was alive. He saw the tension in her body, the twitch in her fingers that suggested she longed to throw herself at Percival, but the way she carefully, oh so carefully, controlled herself and maintained her composure.

He has seen her a few times since around Whitestone, overseeing its rebuilding and defences with a calm and dignity far beyond her apparent years. Every time he has, he has thought that he has no idea how he is supposed to keep his promise to Vax’ildan that he will look out for her. He’s nothing, nobody, compared to her - he's the son of a butcher, and she’s the Lady of Whitestone.

And now she’s here, in the armoury, looking directly at him.

Just the sight of her standing in the doorway makes him nervous, but she’s here and he has to say something.

“My lady?” His voice is hoarse, and he wonders with a belated panic if he should get up and bow.

“Kynan, isn’t it?” Cassandra says, coming more fully into the room. The torchlight seems to make her hair gleam an even darker black than usual, so the white streaks at her temples stand starkly out.

Kynan nods. “Yes, my lady. Can – can I help you with something?”

“Percy told me about the rifle corps he wants formed, and that you would be one training them.”

He nods again, still not sure why she’s here.

Perhaps she sees his uncertainty, because something in her expression softens and she lifts one shoulder in a faint shrug. “I wanted to meet the man my brother trusts enough to put in charge of his inventions while he’s gone.”

Kynan looks uncomfortably down at the gun across his lap. “I don’t … I don’t know if it’s a matter of trust so much as lack of choice,” he says slowly. “I am – was – the only person who had used one.”

There’s a pause, and he hears her footsteps this time as she crosses the armoury towards him.

“You don’t know my brother very well, do you?”

“I – no. I can’t say I do.”

“Percy’s very deliberate in everything he does.” Cassandra sits down on a chest against the wall opposite him and he’s surprised into looking up and meeting her gaze again. “Oh, he can be reckless and make mistakes the same as anyone else. But the choices he makes that aren’t in the heat of the moment, those are always thought through and deliberate. If he didn’t trust you at all then he would rather wait until he returned, or have no rifle corps at all.”

“Oh.”

Kynan isn’t really sure what to do with this information. He doesn’t know what Cassandra’s looking for, why she sought him out. Just to know who he is? Or maybe she wants to know why him?

Why would her brother trust a man that had a hand in his death?

Before he can ask, she’s already answering. “I’m sorry if I’ve disconcerted you. I was just … curious.”

There’s something oddly vulnerable in her words, a kind of wistfulness. In this moment she’s not just the Lady of Whitestone, but a little sister trying to understand the decision made by her big brother. It makes it abruptly easy to remember that she’s the same age as Kynan, if not younger, despite the faint lines etched at the corners of her eyes that show the weight of the burdens she carries. It eases his nerves a little.

Slowly he sets the rifle down on the ground, and then looks at her, gathering his courage. “How much did he … did they … tell you? About what happened? About me?”

Something dims a little in her eyes, but it’s only for a second before that cool composure she always wears is back. Kynan admires that composure greatly, but he also wonders what lies beneath it.

“Not much. Things were more implied than stated outright.”

Kynan takes a breath. “I was working with her. With Ripley. On Glintshore. I fought against them at first.”

He says it all in a rush, like getting it out quickly will make it easier.

Cassandra is quiet for a moment, then says. “At first?”

“I did … I changed my mind. But not before I – the damage was done. It doesn’t change what I did first.”

“But they gave you a second chance.”

Kynan doesn’t quite know how to explain why. “I had met them before. In Emon. It – it was a complicated meeting. But Vax thought I was worth saving.”

Silence falls between them, but it’s the kind of silence that is anticipating being broken. Cassandra watches him and he sees again that thoughtfulness in her gaze, as though she’s weighing him up, looking for something before she comes to a decision. He can almost see the cogs of her mind turning, and he realises she has more of a resemblance to Percival than the high cheekbones, blue eyes and white-streaked hair.

After what feels like several long moments, she says finally, “They thought I was worth saving, too.”

Kynan blinks. “What?”

She smiles, but it’s a sad smile that trembles a little and Kynan wants to reach out and comfort her. “Did any of them explain my family’s connection to Ripley?”

“No, not really.”

“She worked for the Briarwoods. Sylas and Delilah.” Her voice is filled with a deep well of pain and regret and anger as she says the names. Kynan recognises the feelings, a reflection of his own emotions when he thinks of Ripley. “They killed my family, but kept me as a servant. For years I lived with them, and somewhere along the way the hatred I felt became a kind of – of twisted love?” Her brows knot into a frown, like she’s not quite sure herself how to describe it. “I believed that they cared for me, and wanted to help me. I became … desperate for any kind of affection from them. And when my brother and his friends came to Whitestone to kill them, I fought for them.”

By the time she finishes she’s speaking in barely a whisper, and her knuckles are white where her fingers grip the edge of the chest she’s sitting on.

Kynan’s barely breathing, eyes wide as what she’s telling him sinks in. He can’t imagine her – this dedicated, dignified, hard-working young woman – siding with the people who killed her family. But she did.

If she had managed to come back from that, surely there was hope for him? And not just a fool’s hope, but real hope.

“And they gave you a second chance,” he says.

“I thought … for a while I thought it just because I was Percy’s sister,” she says slowly, “But if they gave you one as well, perhaps it was something else. Perhaps they saw in me what they see in you.”

She seems a little surprised, and happy, at her own words, like she finally understands a puzzle that she couldn’t quite unlock before.

Kynan doesn’t know what they see in him, but if it’s anything like what he can see in Cassandra then he is far luckier than he deserves.

They both fall quiet again, but it’s a warmer, companionable quiet this time. Kynan looks down again and thinks to himself how odd it is to sit here with Cassandra de Rolo and feel more at peace than he can remember feeling since he left Emon, but it’s a feeling he enjoys.

“I take it you’re not typically a gun user?” Cassandra says suddenly, gesturing at the daggers in his belt.

His fingers move to touch the sheaths instinctively. There are the daggers Vax’ildan gave him, and the couple of older ones that he used before – well, before. They’re in good condition, as each night after he finishes cleaning and putting away the guns he polishes and sharpens them, but he hasn’t quite been able to bring himself to use Vax’ildan’s gifts yet, not even to train.

He feels like he might be able to now.

“Not usually,” he says, then adds suddenly, “These ones were a gift from Vax. I stabbed Keyleth, and he brought me here and gave me three daggers. Who _does_ that?”

He doesn’t know why he speaks so openly, so freely, about something that still causes him such pain and guilt. But he feels comfortable with Cassandra. He feels like she will understand, even if he gets the words a bit wrong.

She does.

“I stabbed Grog to defend the people who murdered my parents and siblings, and Percy put me in charge of Whitestone. Who does _that_?”

They look at each other for a moment, then, overcome by the sheer absurdity of it all, they both began helplessly laughing, shoulders shaking, covering their faces and shaking their heads. The laughter is tinged with an edge of hysteria but it’s cathartic and when they finally subside back into quiet they are both more relaxed, tension having drained from their limbs. They’ve been tightly wound springs that have finally been set loose.

When Cassandra smiles at him now there’s no more sadness and her eyes are bright, and Kynan can’t help thinking that she is beautiful.

“Vax asked me to look out for you,” he blurts, without thinking.

Cassandra’s eyebrows raise. “Oh?”

“That is – I mean … you’re important to Whitestone. And he, before they left, he said I should … keep an eye out. To make sure you’re safe …” He trails off, face blazing with embarrassment.

Cassandra’s turned thoughtful again, though, and after a pause in which Kynan’s stomach ties itself into several complicated sailor’s knots she says, “It’s been a while since I practiced with my own blades. I’ve been busy with Whitestone and after what happened I … well, I didn’t really want to pick them up. But I should. And I could use a sparring partner.”

It takes a beat for Kynan to grasp what she’s saying.

“I could do that.”


End file.
